Page 7 of Light As A Feather
I can’t see my dark passenger, but his nearness is palpable. An ever-present ball and chain around my ankle, a faint, horrid smell taunting my upper lip, filmy fluid in my lungs, a tightness in my chest, a coarse sand slathered across my skin.
Chafing, draining, unwanted, inescapable.
That doesn’t stop me from ignoring him. If he’s not going to do anything to help me, then it doesn’t matter that he’s here anyway. Instead, I focus on the facts of my circumstances that do matter.
Despite its tightness, the fabric is smooth and cool against my eyelids and cheeks. Same with whatever is binding my wrists. Even more surprisingly, it smells good too. A mix of herbs wafts off it whenever I move. While I’m not exactly comfortable, it’s significantly better than the rough rope or possibly itchy sack or bandana one would expect when getting kidnapped.Am I stereotyping kidnappers?The absurd, wayward thought draws out a brief smirk.
Time warps and expands with my senses deprived. There’s no telling how long it’s been—not that I’ve ever had a great sense of time to begin with. The person who took me doesn’t speak, leaving my mind to freely wander. In the quiet, I search for answers, noting every sound. The smooth forward momentum of the tires hints that we’re likely on a freeway, one that’s well-maintained. We’re traveling through somewhere that cares about appearances and has the money to keep it up.
The faintest hint of a piano reaches my ear through the back speaker, not enough to make out the composition, but enough for it to be a soothing filler noise. The droning of the air conditioning nearly overrides it. Beneath all those layers, there’s a faint, metallic tempo. Coins or keys in a pocket. The driver is bouncing their leg. Maybe they’re anxious to get wherever they’re going, maybe they’re nervous about what’s going to happen if someone finds out I’m missing.
Luckily for them, there won’t be any alarms raised. I’ve been in the wind for years. If anybody had been looking for me, they likely gave up years ago. At least, I hope he has…for both of our sakes.
With the exception of the seatbelt buckle digging into my thigh that’s overflowing the suggested confines of the seat, I’m quite relaxed despite my precarious situation. Relieved, even. Without the hope and determination I used to cling to in my twenties, I’ve become aimless, lost, and miserable. An empty vessel to be used by spirits, and sometimes the random fuck when I really can’t bear my own company anymore.
And of course, I’m never without Ivan.
My shadow, my haunting, the devil that sits on my shoulder, driving me to madness with no end in sight. This is a new scenario, though I hate to admit that it tastes a bit like freedom. The intrigue of it, the challenge of looking for an escape, even the possibilities of my own end, they ignite a spark in my mind, a recently too-idle machine purring back to life.
If there’s one thing I love, it’s to problem-solve under pressure; that rush of a million scenarios racing through my mind and random thoughts compounding on one another to come to a conclusion, I’ve missed that high. Latching onto the prospect of what’s to come, I sit in silent stillness, distracted for the duration of the car ride.
That sense of security I’ve slipped into is disrupted when I’m jostled as we turn off onto rougher terrain. This feels like the kind of off-road venture you’d take to some remote place where you’re going to bury a body.
Could this be it? The end?
As the car slows to a stop, a faint drum of panic builds. I recognize it as that stubborn sense of survival nearly all animals are born with. My mind races through possibilities of escape. I’m not a small woman. I can make it difficult for them to move me, maybe even use my two-hundred-and-fifty-plus pounds to throw them off balance and give myself a chance to run. They’re strong, but they had the element of surprise on me last time. There is the blindfold, though, maybe?—
I’m out of time as a hand latches around my shoulder and directs me out of the car.
“Where are we?” The demanding question is softened by the cutting chill that steals my breath. There’s no answer, but the hand moves from my shoulder to the base of my neck, a thumb pressing into the knot of tension there. I jump at the contact, but it’s not the intimacy of it that puts me on edge. Quite the opposite is true as my shoulders loosen of their own volition, a buzz of warmth runs down my spine.
Thrown off balance, I don’t have time to process that reaction as I teeter toward the ground, gravity claiming me. But I don’t fall, a hand wraps around my waist, the heat of their palm sinking through the thin fabric of my top.
“Careful,” my captor gasps, their hand digging into me harder. It’s not just the touch that sends a flare of familiarity through me; that voice prods at something in the back of my mind. But it must be my subconscious trying to provide a hint of comfort as my anxiety swells.
As we move forward, I rely on my especially sensitive hearing to give me a sense of direction. Listening attentively, I pick up onthe scuff of dirt beneath thick-soled shoes, the tumble of rocks kicked out of the way, and the crackle of leaves and sticks. Gentle but firm fingers latch around my elbow and guide me up a short set of steps.One. Two. Three. Four.
There was a time when four steps were a countdown to safety. Now they’re a ticking time bomb to an ascent into the unknown.
Cool darkness gives way to low, warm lighting that slips through the top of the blindfold as we walk into a building, a house, I would guess, based on the sturdy wood flooring. The comforting thunk of each footstep gives me a semblance of routine as they lead me deeper into the structure. A few more steps, and then we come to an abrupt stop.
The metallic click of a lock sounds in front of me, and then we’re pressing forward into pitch black. My stomach drops as I prepare to plummet, but I’m soothed by a reassuring pressure on my shoulder as someone directs me into a chair. Plush fabric meets the backs of my thighs—at least they’re not putting me in some measly metal contraption that’s going to dig into my legs.
On edge, I use what senses I do have to keep tabs on them. The soft tap of a shoe sole against the flooring allows me to follow their movements as they circle me slowly.
Suspense gathers like tiny insects, restlessly vibrating in my hands and feet. Bound as I am, I can’t shake it off, so it begins to spread up my limbs. Stubbornly, I try to keep myself still and remain quiet, to win in this standoff, but as the minutes tick on, my discomfort mounts to a point where I can’t help but explode.
“What do you want with me?” I give in and jostle my restraints, trying to shake off some of the antsy-ness. “Whatever it is, can we just get this over with?”
My provocation has the opposite effect of what I’d hoped. Their steps lead away, their exit confirmed by the hushed click of the door. Dammit.
With their absence comes some semblance of peace—as much as can be achieved when blindfolded and tied up in an unknown location. My heartbeat and breathing slow, my thoughts clear enough for me to enjoy the reprieve from being watched. I reposition myself at a slightly more comfortable angle and try to disappear into the familiarity of my own mind.
But then the ticking of the clock comes into focus.Tick, tock, tick, tock. Beneath it, the continuous hum of the lights, the shrill electric current, metallic and sharp. It cuts through my patience. No fancy torture needed; this will surely undo me if they just leave me here for a while.
Several maddening minutes pass before my attention shifts to the creaking swing of the door. Someone new comes toward me, their steps purposeful, the stick of rubber sneaker soles distinct. I fight the urge to shrink into myself; allowing my uncertainty to manifest won’t do me any good.
“We’ve been looking for you.” Their voice scratches at something in the back of my mind, but I can’t place it.
